Ghost in the Machine
by nursehelena
Summary: Four times already he'd said it, but that didn't make Toki any better at goodbyes.


Rain pitter-pattered against the back patio, hardly audible over the television. A late start already threw Toki's day off-kilter; he'd become such a slave to routine lately. He waited for coffee to percolate, leaning against the kitchen counter and casually observing the concert that played out. Seeing it so many times meant he had every frame memorized. Nathan growled into the crowd, hair lanky in his face and snarl visible behind. Pickles' feet blurred behind his kit. Headbanging, Dethklok's bassist cushioned the music, Toki windmilled once-brown hair, and then the squeal of a guitar marked the beginning of Skwisgaar's solo. The camera panned to him at the forefront of the stage.

Even after watching Dethklok shows all day every day, it still struck the Norwegian just how much talent the Swede exuded in his youth. Now the man sat in silence beside the living room picture window, facing the lawn where piles of snow gently yielded to the spring season. The once tall and proud physique of someone gripping the world by its balls withered away into a thousand yard stare and involuntary tremors. If Toki hadn't stood beside Skwisgaar—lived, partied, and played with him—for all those years, he wouldn't be able to reconcile the wild blond on the television with his end product.

The conclusion of one concert fluidly transitioned into the start of another. Personally, if Toki had the choice, he'd rather sit in silence than revisit his life's prime. For Skwisgaar though, the Norwegian tolerated endless machine-gun guitars, guttural vocals, and relentless blastbeats. The doctor told him that regression was rather normal, in dementia patients. He likened the Swede's sense of reality to a dream, explaining why, not long after his sixty-fifth birthday, Skwisgaar started talking again about the next concert, the next album, or the next tour. Now that he neared seventy, Toki created an environment which eased that delusion into a convincing fantasy. It made all the difference. Skwisgaar forewent the utterances about suicide, no longer fought against being fed, and possessed a personal reason to let Toki lift him into his wheelchair every morning.

Drink poured, the Norwegian joined Skwisgaar in the living room. The man didn't seem to notice him sit down beside, although his nostrils twitched with the pervading scent of coffee. For his condition, Skwisgaar maintained external youth. Where a spray of wrinkles spread over Toki's face whenever he laughed or smiled, the Swede boasted smoothness in that regard. Toki joked with him once in a while that it was directly related to how much they expressed happiness in the past, but of course Skwisgaar had genes to thank. Even grey hair couldn't undermine that.

Good and bad days distinguished themselves depending on Skwisgaar's functionality and responsiveness. Toki had emptied half his mug when the Swede shifted, blank eyes meeting his. After a moment, recognition seemed to sink in; life appeared in the older man and his facial muscles strained to form a smile. "Toki."

"Hey, Skwis."

"Have you seen Nat'an yet today?" He struggled with each word. "I have an idea for a song."

"I think he took some supermodels to his room last night, so he's probably sleeping it off."

"Oh. Okay."

"Do you remember," Toki asked, "when you used to go to the bar and bring women back here at night? Then you stopped and when I asked why, you told me you couldn't get it up without a pill anymore and it was too embarrassing to explain to your dates? And then you laughed when I admitted I'd already had that problem for years?"

Skwisgaar's expression glazed over again; that would be a no. So much for attempting to exercise his memory. Toki got into the habit of telling stories when it first started to slip away. Even though it was pretty much useless to relay anything beyond the pinnacle of Dethklok's fame, Toki still enjoyed sharing the high points of the three decades that followed.

Immediately after the band's demise was a blur from the shock that came with Nathan's mortality. Toki hardly even remembered his return to Norway, nor the intensive two years he spent basically rebuilding his parents' old house. That period constituted a limbo for his ex-bandmates, as well; every time he spoke to them, they occupied themselves with something else or had moved. Life didn't feel any more stable on Toki's end. Unplugging from civilization and toiling away to erase all trace of his childhood within these walls made the band seem like a reverie gone too far. Had he actually left? Did he simply imagine the phone calls? If he peered at the newspapers in town, would he find no hint that Dethklok actually existed?

A knock on his front door one evening while washing dishes concreted the truth. Toki hadn't heard a vehicle pull up, nor was there one by his truck. His stomach dropped past his knees when he peered through the peephole, heart instantly hammering against his ribcage. He'd seen right; Skwisgaar stood on his stoop in a white parka with snowflakes in his hair.

The blond had become fluent in Bokmål somewhere along the way. "Are you just going to stare at me like a fish, or can I come in?"

Coming back to the present, Toki worked further toward the bottom of his mug. "The rain should clear up in a couple hours, then we can go outside."

"I'd rather not," Skwisgaar replied.

"You don't have a choice."

"Dildo."

Toki couldn't pinpoint a specific time when Skwisgaar changed from guest to resident. His visits were short in the beginning, usually anywhere from two to five days, maybe occurring about once a month. It seemed that every death to reach their ears—Pickles asphyxiating on his own vomit in Tijuana, Murderface swerving into oncoming traffic, and Charles dying quietly in the night—lengthened his stays. They travelled to the United States for each funeral and after the final one, they returned here together rather than say goodbye in Copenhagen as they flew out to their respective homelands.

Skwisgaar sat then in the chair Toki did now, slumped forward and face heavy with shadow. He didn't look up when the Norwegian set a mug of coffee on the windowsill for him. For a long time, neither of them said anything.

"I can't believe we're the only ones left."

After contemplating that since departing New York, emotional exhaustion resulted only in a nod from the Norwegian. It couldn't go unnoticed that the small group of them cinching together at each memorial slowly shrunk. The two of them, Murderface, and Charles all expressed regret for not spending more time with Pickles before he went, and unfortunately they never learned that lesson. They saw Charles next at Murderface's funeral, then they alone honoured their late ex-manager.

Toki considered his willingness to cry at funerals healthy, as compared to Skwisgaar's stoicism. Even though the Swede treated Toki's house as his home base before Pickles' death, something compelled him after each transatlantic journey to briefly return to Sweden. Toki assumed to visit his mother's grave, but as they stewed in newfound loneliness, he descried a whole other reason. It scared him initially, the silent wracking of Skwisgaar's shoulders. "Hey, it's okay."

"No it's not!" the Swede snapped back. A blotchy face subverted his anger. "They weren't supposed to die, none of them. We were all going to live forever. I want my friends back, I miss Mordhaus, I miss. . ."

Toki held his own emotion at bay for the other man's sake, arm clenched around bony shoulders as the ugliest noises he'd ever heard resulted in wet spots on his shirt. No way, was Skwisgaar ever supposed to do this. He shouldn't even be _allowed_. At least now, two decades past that anguish, the Swede got what he wanted. Regressed to thirty-five years old or so, Skwisgaar's friends existed just out of sight. Even with its comparatively tiny spaces, their home became Mordhaus in his mind. The videos on constant play in the background revived Dethklok from the dead.

Toki set his newspaper and reading glasses aside. The rain had let up in lieu of mist. "Ready to go for a stroll?"

"I need to get my jacket."

"Jackets are for pussies."

"Then I'm not going."

Skwisgaar liked it when Toki argued with him, especially if he got his way afterward. Toki obliged, since it comforted him just as much. He feared that the initial onset of dementia would diminish the person he'd spent about fifty years living with. Yes, somedays that ghost grew lost in the machine, but then Skwisgaar would surprise him with sudden reemergence. Mostly, that meant a quarrel about whether or not Toki practiced his guitar lately.

In reality, neither of them had. Arthritis presented a hurdle, first for Skwisgaar. Toki assumed it would devastate him by compromising his lingering status as the world's best guitarist, but medication and less constant play made it bearable. The real struggle came later, when a shake developed in the Swede's left hand.

He flung his guitar onto the floor. "For fuck's sake! I can't play like this. I think it's a side-effect from those stupid pills."

"Maybe they need to change your dosage, or try a different kind. If you make a doctor's appointment, I'll drive you in."

Parkinson's formed a hush when the diagnosis came. Of course, Toki wasn't ignorant about all the testing and interrogation Skwisgaar underwent to pinpoint the problem. Whether the Swede understood or merely denied the prospect, he never said anything throughout the entire process. He might as well have been given a death sentence though, judging by the futility that shut him down as the doctor's explanation was directed instead at Toki. That spelled the end of everything Skwisgaar prided himself for; erectile dysfunction already ceased his womanizing, and now neurological disorder snatched his guitar away. It seemed like such a silly reason to monitor the Swede for signs of impending suicide, but Toki kept in mind that quite literally his entire world ceased to spin. Skwisgaar's drug cocktail fluctuated afterward with anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds.

"I don't need one of those," he said as the Norwegian sat at the kitchen table with all the prescriptions, organizing them in a pill case. "And I'm not taking any of it anymore. It's only making me worse."

"Too bad. You're going to do what the doctor tells you."

"No I'm not."

"So long as you live with me, you're going to take care of yourself. If you don't want to, then go back to Sweden and see how long you last on your own."

"You know what, fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Since when do _you_ call the shots about _my_ health? You think you're so fucking great, just because you don't have to deal with _any_ of this shit."

Toki never said, but his own easeful advancement of age became a source of guilt. His mental health remained stable and constant motion kept his body in good shape. He hated just as much that he maintained the quality of his life where the Swede's tremors gradually worsened, speech grew difficult, and stiffness eventually curled his hands into fists so tight that foam kept his fingernails from digging into his palms.

Out in the garden now, Toki brought the wheelchair to a halt so that he could wipe the newest stream of drool off Skwisgaar's chin. The Swede fixated somewhere over by the trees, pupils retracted to their smallest possible size. "Hey."

"Ja?"

"Who's in charge of security?"

"Why?"

"How'd that man get past them?"

Just as Toki suspected, no one stood there. Hallucinations were all part of it too. Toki played along mostly, not bothering to argue with Skwisgaar's warped reality, especially since it all seemed relatively harmless. Usually, the Swede just expressed some sort of impatience about an unfulfilled order he'd given one of the klokateers. "I'm not sure."

"We need to go talk to Charles. This is unacceptable, how many people just wander in here."

"He's probably busy right now, but we can go see him later."

"He's _always_ busy."

The path separated two muddy lakes, where Toki's gardens would eventually be planted. His fingers itched to submerge in soil, to transform this grey landscape into something rife with nourishment for both body and soul. While Skwisgaar would have denied it vehemently if in the condition to, he enjoyed being pushed through all the flowers and vegetation when they reached full bloom come August. On days when the Swede didn't speak, it meant so much to Toki that the appearance of a brambling injected joy into his silent expression.

Today was by far the best Skwisgaar had in a while, and noon hadn't even struck yet. The man grew quiet for the remainder of their walk, stare returned as Toki rolled him up to the table after a layover in the bathroom. He seemed to watch the Norwegian ground his pills into a powder, fit to be mixed with his equally fine lunch.

"How would you like some beer?"

No response. Deciding for him, a can joined the pulverized fruit, vegetables, and meat on the table. Too bad his cognizance didn't last until meal time. Every spoonful was a fight, when Skwisgaar disappeared inside himself. "Janne's coming to visit you tomorrow. I hope you two can behave while I go into town."

It took a while for Skwisgaar to say anything, but he fought it out when Toki rinsed the dishes. "She's a prude."

"Still won't give it up, huh?"

"Just wait until I get her into my bed."

Toki laughed. Goddamn, even _this_ long without the company of a woman, and Skwisgaar just couldn't let it go. The caretaker sent out to temporarily relieve Toki from his posting regarded it in good humour. She was young enough to _maybe_ remember Dethklok as an entity rather than legend, and her strong persona seemed to inspire similar reaction in all her patients.

"She wouldn't be sorry. Skwisgaar Skwigelf doesn't pretend, with _anybody_." The Swede's eyes closed when a warm washcloth moved over his face. "I could make her love me."

"You've made lots of women love you, Skwis."

"Ja."

Skwisgaar's head lulled forward and like that, he'd fallen asleep. Once done cleaning the kitchen, Toki moved him back over to the window. Not much could wake him, so the Norwegian didn't worry about changing into his work-out clothes and hopping onto the treadmill. Doing it for the Swede eased his guilt about taking any sort of break; the idea of his own death terrified him more than Skwisgaar's. If Toki should suddenly die, what would happen to the other man? How long would it take, until Janne discovered his body? Where would Skwisgaar go? Who would maintain their schedule? Would Skwisgaar ever be able to adjust to anything else? He was stubborn enough, without cognitive decline.

Clouds rolled in over the mountains, blocking the sunshine Skwisgaar basked in. His head popped up again as Toki traded out cardio for sit-ups. After towelling off, the Norwegian checked on him.

"You stink."

"Just heading for the shower. You need anything before I do?"

"Someone pissed on me again. Did you ever find out who keeps doing that?"

"No, I haven't."

"It's probably Murderface. Asshole."

After tending to that, Toki sighed as hot water ran over his back. Weren't creative types supposed to be immune from losing their minds? Surely, after a lifetime of exercising his brain, Skwisgaar should've never gone this way. Unfairness was a lesson Toki learned early on; while they were fortunate enough to earn their keep doing what they loved, the latter years turned far less kind. As much as Toki wished the end could be spent differently, he simply accepted what was necessary to make the Swede comfortable. Somedays he too enjoyed sitting down with a beer and watching their old concert footage. He remembered all the bad memories but only talked about the good, skewing the band in permanently favourable light. For all the mistakes they made in their treatment toward Toki, he'd long forgiven them. He'd spent nearly twenty years with them, he didn't need to spend thirty more dwelling.

With them all gone, the world having moved on, and the natural process of slowly forgetting English, he and Skwisgaar created something different outside it all. More than financially set, they had little to worry about. Sometimes Toki wondered when their codependency might end. Maybe the Norwegian could find a woman and settle down with a couple kids. Unfortunately, his youth slipped away; Nathan collapsed not long after Toki's thirty-sixth birthday already, and he neared fifty when those biological pangs made themselves known. Where did the time go? Living with Skwisgaar at least sated his need for companionship. Lately though, it would be nice to have family to call when Toki needed someone consistently lucid to talk to.

Skwisgaar tired himself out, after such a strong first half of the day. While he stared out at the returned rain, Toki directed attention on his various hobbies. The model airplane he worked on joined its brethren in hanging from his bedroom ceiling, he finished the novel he'd been reading for the past week, and then tinkered away at his latest musical creation. Fame found him again—a well-guarded secret—by a pseudonym under which he composed what his proponents dubbed new contemporary classic. In a world so reliant on technology, real instruments came around as the trend again. Any idiot could distort the shit out of something, was the reasoning; it took true talent to bring dozens of different sounds into one solid voice. The project used to belong to Skwisgaar too, but. . .

"Here we go." Toki grunted as he hoisted the Swede onto his bed, when nine o'clock came around. "Get some sleep and we'll start over again in the morning."

"Me and Pickles are going out tonight, though."

"To do what?"

"Get fucked up. Get fucked. The usual."

"It'll have to wait. Pickles is already passed out."

"Figures. He always does this."

Toki opened his eyes later in bed as if he'd merely blinked. Only by checking the clock—3:09 in the morning—did he realize he'd actually drifted off at all. Rain pelted the roof again, accentuated by the odd gust of wind bombarding all sides. That didn't wake him, though; through all that, he became aware of a quiet wheeze from the next room. Toki automatically rose, to go check on the other man. With such little control over his sleeping schedule, Toki wouldn't be surprised to find Skwisgaar awake.

The wheezing came from the Swede's struggling chest. Had some spittle gone down the wrong hole? Anything like this put Toki immediately on edge; if he checked on Skwisgaar under these circumstances, he'd wait out the return to steady breaths before heading back to his own room. When nothing changed after a couple moments, concern compelled the Norwegian to slide in under the blanket. He pushed some stray hairs out of Skwisgaar's face. His diaphragm stilled when a shudder ended the older man's struggle. Now, if he'd just slide back into rhythm, then Toki could stop worrying.

He waited.

He'd waited too long.

An ear to Skwisgaar's lips resulted in nothing, as well as a couple fingers to his jugular. So that was it. This was how it ended. Toki laid in the darkness, listening to the rain and feeling the cooling stiffness of the body beside him. At least he went peacefully, without pain.

Anticipation for this didn't make it any easier. The idea gained some traction in Toki's mind, tearing a cavity in his chest. His friend was gone, just like that. Forehead pressed against the smooth one opposite, he choked on his words. "Fuck you, you stupid jerkass Swedish _prick_. Fuck _you_."

If Toki knew he'd spent his last day with Skwisgaar, he would've made it special. Couldn't the man hold out to see the gardens once more? To hear the birds return from further south? To watch their concerts, tease Toki about his shitty guitar skills, drink one more beer?

_Just one more day, please, just breathe again and we'll do it all one more time, before you go. _

_You can't leave me alone here. What would I do with myself? All I've known for so long is you. _

Habit eased what had to come next. Toki set Skwisgaar into his wheelchair. The crematorium awaited them. However, with the rain coming down so hard, what condition would the road be in? Did Toki want to risk it? What if he hit the ditch or got stuck? What was worse, that or sitting around with his departed friend?

Silence crushed Toki in the living room. He wouldn't be able to sleep now, for sure. Maybe having to wait was a blessing in disguise. Toki wheeled Skwisgaar over to the window like usual, turned on the television, and retreated into the kitchen in order to make some coffee. Before having to consider how his life would change as the last living member of Dethklok or without someone to revolve his days around, he'd give this routine one last go.


End file.
